


See You Around

by DangerousCommieSubversive



Category: Daredevil (Comics)
Genre: Anonymous Sex, Foe Yay, M/M, Prompt Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-04
Updated: 2013-10-04
Packaged: 2017-12-28 08:41:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,980
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/990003
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DangerousCommieSubversive/pseuds/DangerousCommieSubversive
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Matt stops for a drink in a bar and lets himself get picked up by a compelling stranger--who he turns out to know all too well.</p><p>Written from a prompt from Tumblr user peoplearefriendsnotfood, who asked for Daredevil/Bullseye that was <em>specifically</em> consensual and not creepy, which was an interesting challenge!</p>
            </blockquote>





	See You Around

There are people in this world who never miss. And there are people who are never hit. And they're not the same people, not at all, but sometimes there are intersections, the crossed paths of two distinctly different kinds of luck.

Now: it is raining.

Heavy rain is a blessing _and_ curse for Matt, it overwhelms his ears in the same way that he faintly recalls bright light overwhelming his eyes. He pulls his baseball cap—blue today, according to the Braille label—down over his face and tries to keep dry.

He's not really _doing_ anything today. It's Saturday. It's too early to patrol. Everyone is busy. Mid-afternoon, and he's wandering as aimless as a cat, nowhere to be and nothing to do. And it's raining. Pouring, in fact.

He decides, almost surprising himself, to get get a beer.

He hasn't been in this bar before, doesn't have a preferred spot already, so he taps his way to a stool and sits down, leaning his cane against his legs.

“What'll it be?” The bartender—male, bored, could maybe stand to watch his blood pressure.

Matt smiles. “Whatever's best. I'll trust your judgment.”

“Your funeral, mac. I got no tastebuds.”

He listens to the clinking of glass, the pleasant hiss of the draught spout, the scrape of another stool beside him and then a gravelly voice he recognizes but can't place says, “Aw, c'mon, Al. You don't haveta give the guy the crap stuff just 'cause he's _blind._ ”

The bartender's heartbeat skyrockets. “Oh. Uh. Hey, Darts.”

“Hey, Al.” The newcomer—also male, and with the steady breath and pulse of a man whose confidence is unshakeable—shifts towards Matt. “Whatcha having, shades?”

Matt shrugs. “I was letting him pick. Why? Are you offering to buy me a beer?”

“Why the fuck not. Hey, Al, drinks for everyone. And step fuckin' quick, man, I'm dying of thirst.”

Almost everyone in the room cheers, and there's a rush of feet as people hurry to the bar. The storm is still roaring outside, and together with the bar stampede Matt finds himself almost able to map the room.

“Seriously. Shades. Whaddaya want?”

“Guinness, if I can.”

“Guinness? Man, _fuck_ that foreign shit. Pabst! Blue Ribbon!” A pause, and then a peal of rough laughter. “Nah, just fuckin' with you. Life's too short to drink shit beer.”

Someone at the bar mutters, “Yeah, you'd know about life being short—I didn't say anything! Sorry, Darts!”

Matt hears his beer sliding down the bar and raises his hand to catch it before it goes past him. Someone—not Darts or the bartender—whistles, and Darts says, “Smooth, shades.”

“Thanks.” Matt holds up his glass in an undirected toast. “Cheers.”

 _Thud_ as Darts catches his own drink, the faint sound of his throat working as he takes a gulp of it, and he says, “So. You new in town?”

\--

It's not a first-floor apartment, so they take the elevator, both slightly too tipsy to navigate the stairs. Whatever they're going to do is probably a stupid idea, and they both know it. Today's a day for stupid ideas. And nobody greets them in the hall, though Matt can hear people passing, feel them brush by.

He can hear their pulses speed up when they look at him. Or the man he's with.

The echo in the front room of the apartment says, _empty._ Not a stick of furniture, not a scrap of carpet—maybe shades on the windows, maybe a chair, but otherwise nothing. Not even flies. It feels like no one lives here.

No one but Darts.

Matt's starting to have some suspicions, an itch of recognition. But much of his life so far has been built on reckless behaviour, there's really no reason to stop now.

“Can I—”

“I don't—”

“Can I look at you, I was going to ask.” Matt holds up his free hand, wiggles his fingers. “Since we're not doing names.” Which isn't something they've discussed, because they don't need to. It's obviously the case.

Pulse speeds up. Breathing still steady. “Yeah, sure.”

Darts used to have acne, but he's got good skin now—clean, smooth, shaven, although not otherwise cared for, no lotions or aftershave. Surprisingly long eyelashes. Thin lips. Cheekbones not prominent, but definitely _present._ Nose that's been broken more than once. Not a _handsome_ man, at least not in the way that Matt would define handsome, but...memorable. Striking. He's wearing a knit cap, a watch cap style by feel, and Matt's fingertips slip under the edge for a moment and trace the edges of a scar, concentric circles pressed into the skin.

Darts steps away and says, “You want another beer? I don't have the good stuff here, fridge's broken—” a lie, there isn't a refrigerator here, “—but I've gotta case of Bud. Tastes like shit warm, but it's something.”

“Sure.”

Cans _thunk_ , and then there's a _whoosh_ as Darts tosses him one, says, “Shit, wasn't—” even as Matt snatches it from the air unthinking.

Heartrate up.

Neither of them says anything.

Matt pops the can open, takes a long sip, and thinks, _mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa._ “It's pretty warm.”

“Yeah, well, that's life, isn't it?”

He breathes out, and the connection is still there, whatever spark this is. “We're not going to talk about it.”

“No.” _Hiss_ of another beer opening. “I should fucking think not.”

“Later...”

“Later's a different time. Now's now. Life's short, Shades.”

“Yeah.” Matt smiles, just a bit. “I guess we both know that.” 

\-- 

There's no bed, just a mattress on the floor—an _expensive_ one, though. Memory foam. Eight hundred thread count sheets. The bed of a man who likes to sleep soundly.

Touch is... _overwhelming,_ and they're not even undressed yet. There's fire in the callused hands on Matt's arms, skating over his skin as if checking for weak points. Everything is _loud._ Their breathing, their heartbeats. The sound of the legs of their jeans rubbing together, brushing the mattress.

They took off their hats at the bedroom door. A hand on his shoulder, under his shirt, and then _Darts—_ no names—says, “Shades.”

“Yes?”

“No, you moron, the _shades._ They're gonna get in the way.”

“Oh. Right.” Matt reaches up—

His glasses are lifted off his face by hands not his own, and he blinks. Air on his eyes. A _huff_ and, “Jesus _Christ,_ Shades. Face like yours oughtta be _illegal._ ”

“I...thank you?”

“Yes, that was a compliment, shut the fuck up.”

“It was genuine puzzlement, I don't actually know what I look like.”

“And I'm not gonna _tell_ you. But _shit._ ”

Fingertips ghost over his face in something almost a parody of his own motions earlier, tracing the scars around his eyes. And what is gentle to others is like a blow to him. He has to resist the urge to flinch, knowing that a display of weakness could be all it takes to destroy...whatever it is that this is, could turn this from something he doesn't quite understand into something he knows all too well.

A flinch could kill him.

Or he can reach forward, like _this,_ and feel the other man shudder as Matt lifts his shirt off.

His ears are ringing.

And the mouth on his throat is hot like fire, every millimeter of his skin is tingling, the blood thunders in his ears like an encroaching tidal wave, the air is full entirely of the scent of someone he knows very well but not like this, and there are so many _sensations._ He is borne down against the mattress under the pressure of a body that's a weapon, but what holds him there is the overstimulation of his own nerves. Wiggling out of his shirt is almost an afterthought until suddenly he's frozen in place by the feeling of lips on his chest, the tip of a tongue circling one nipple.

He's normally so quiet, but now he cries out, as killing hands slide down his sides and wrap around his waist. He can feel calluses on the fingertips, mapping out a thousand old murders against his skin. And at this point reaching out is a _different_ matter of self-protection than normal, taking control of the situation just a bit. He pulls the other man close and noses at the hollow of his throat, licking perilously close to the jugular.

Risk is the only way to live.

The other man grunts, jolts involuntarily, and for a moment it's a battle as hands go to belts. They scrabble at each other's buckles and buttons and zippers, shove underwear out of the way, and—in this man's hands, desire, like everything else, becomes a weapon, and in _Matt's_ hands precision is the finest way to fight.

They know each other too well to misstep even once.

They _move._

This is how it is: they move against each other, face to face, because neither trusts the other one enough to turn his back. Their legs are tangled together, their cocks sliding side by side. Their hands have different calluses, from different things, but both feel good. Matt's jeans are around his knees, they're restricting his movement, and he would worry if he couldn't feel that his companion is equally restricted. His body is _singing._

The rough voice— _Bullseye's_ voice, it's hardly a name, Matt's never really known him as anything other than Bullseye—in his ear is muttering obscenities in a tone that's almost loving, a quiet litany of “fuck” and “fucking _hell_ ” and, oddly or not so oddly, “I fucking _know_ you.”

His accent is unplaceable, and after so many years of _hearing_ and learning to understand what he hears, it's _that_ little unsolvable puzzle that makes this somehow more exciting, that makes Matt roll his hips up and sigh when the other man groans.

If they were other people, perhaps this could be love.

The pleasure is like thunder in his head, like lightning on his skin, and his mouth is filled with the taste of someone else. He is arched on the mattress, stimulated beyond all possible hope of coherence, and when he comes it is with a cry that shatters in his ears, and then there is an aftershock and the world is suddenly, unprecedentedly, silent. Just for a moment. It is silent in a way that his life hasn't been for years. He could drown in it.

Matt shudders at the silence, and at its baffling perfection, and Bullseye says nothing.

He knows Matt too well to interrupt.

And then, when that moment has very clearly passed, Bullseye laughs—“Kinda fast off the blocks, aintcha, shades?”—and then after a minute he's coming too, and his weight on top of Matt is somehow not oppressive.

It's intimate.

Too intimate.

They move apart, grab for the edges of the bunched-up sheet, and clean themselves off. Matt manages to get his jeans done back up with one hand as he searches for his shirt with the other. At first he grabs the wrong one, and in a second of complete insanity he considers keeping it, but...that would be weird. He gets his own shirt instead, pulls that on. Finds his glasses and puts them back on too.

And. “So,” Bullseye says. “We gonna fight now?”

They should. They really should, that's what they _do._ “You know, I'm really not feeling it.”

“Hn. Yeah. Me neither. So what now, then?” Rough-voiced laughter.

Matt shrugs and gets to his feet like this whole day's been easy and sane, snagging his cane from the floor as he stands. “I suppose that's up to you.”

“You ask for my number? I say, nah, gimme yours, don't call me, I'll call you?”

It's a bad joke.

Matt smiles and taps the side of his glasses. “See you around.”

He leaves through the window.


End file.
